I’ve known a few humble men in my time.
Dead now. They wouldn’t want their names mentioned.
Humility is a fabled hamlet somewhere
up in the mountains no roads lead to.
Not a way of self regard but, regarding the self not at all
or, offhandedly, an afterthought, an offshoot,
treated underfoot as maybe a kid brother.
The self a cumbersome necessity for a while,
an essential nuisance like the cast on a broken leg
to be discarded when wholeness returns.
There’s a natural attraction to the humble,
their emptiness allowing room to unwind, stretch out.
They exist so minimally, a sense of expansiveness
is engendered in all those fatefully drawn near.
O child of God, humility arrives by an evolutionary process
which cannot be rushed, provoked or overridden.